


Ringbearer

by jojotier



Category: Original Work
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Nature symbolism, Poetic, Prose Poem, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:21:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jojotier/pseuds/jojotier
Summary: There's an unmarked grave under the willow tree. No one knows it's there except for me.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Ringbearer

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt given was "rings", and it was for a magazine with a nature focus, but I might have missed the point by focusing more on the humans, when the focus should have been more on how nature exists and thrives in relation to humans, rather than existing as a conduit to understand them... Whoops! Looks like maybe things that aren't character-focused aren't my cup of tea... I'll have to keep it in mind for the next round of submissions!
> 
> I hope you enjoy in any case!

There’s an unmarked grave under a willow tree outside of town. No one has claimed the body within except for the vines that gently curl over the earthen grave’s surface. No travelers visit except for the rabbits and worms. It’s marked with a ring of marshmallow white mushrooms.

I read it in her journal. It’s yellowed with age, hidden in an ignored box in the backroom of the library. I’m still afraid it might crumble to dust.

Her favorite flowers were daisies. Her journal says that what she wanted more than anything else in the world was to make her own fairy ring. I remember reading those words, remember wondering what kind of delusions made those words bubble onto the page. 

Each year her body melts bit by bit into the earth, gently pulled apart and dissolved into the pillowy mushroom caps that adorn her final resting place. It’s the kind of scene that’s presented scornfully as the hippie kind of crazy; the kind of end that gets romanticized in high school English classes by teachers trying to find meaning in artificially flowery prose.

She died anonymously. It’s the kind of story that gets more sterile the more it falls out of everyone’s mouth, the kind that loses its gleam over the perpetual telephone game gossipers play. No one remembers her. I never met her. Her only remnant in town is her journal.

All of those thoughts melt when I push aside the curtain of willow vines. The circle of mushrooms greet me. I’m out of place, standing on the altar of the earth in neon converse. 

My phone sits in my pocket, metal cold and metal silent. It stays buried in fabric pockets while my hands, bare and stinging with effort, string together daisies. The sun is enough to work by, filtering over me in blotches of warm light.

Now that I’m here, I can’t imagine that she’s lonely. Her tomb is livelier than any cemetery; bugs gently scuttle across its surfaces, centipedes dancing in circles alongside ants marching in formation. They emerge, they move, and they crawl back under the safety of lush leaves; into the comfort of moss carpets. If I listen, I can hear the gentle rustle of rabbits and mice.

It’s a good day to move around. The light breeze is broken up by the swaying willow vines that hide us- the girl in the grave, the rabbits shuffling, the bugs strolling, and me. For a moment, I can breathe.

The dirt is soft, sinking under the weight of my knees as I finish the crown. I sit down, relieved. A simple white petaled ring lays limply in my hands. It’s more green than white in places with some knots tied too clumsily, but it’s a lot better than the first time I tried.

I lay my veneration in the center of the mushroom ring and finally understand.


End file.
